


Waiting for the Storm

by AphroditesTummyRolls



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, I also aged everyone up a little bit because writing teenage romance is weird for me, I changed around some characters, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Like... SERIOUSLY diverged from canon, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Memory Loss, Recovered Memories, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia, WCKD is NOT good, cuz it's Newt, newtmas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AphroditesTummyRolls/pseuds/AphroditesTummyRolls
Summary: They used to be orphans growing up in a small community to the east of a vast desert-- it was called The Glade. All of them grew up with a kind guardian on the edge of the community. She took care of them all, and raised her own daughter alongside them. Everything was alright-- they were managing. They were happy. Until the Berg arrived on the edge of their land, talking about something called "The Flare" and saying they were "here to help".Nothing was as it seemed.A1WCKD had no real memories of where he was from, or who he had been before WCKD came along. He and A7 lived in their small quarters in their facility. All they knew was that the world was in trouble, and they were the "key to saving the Last City". But nothing can stay buried forever, and the memories start flooding back-- images of a  mysterious blond, a rundown community of grass and trees, and a terrible virus all start swirling in his head beyond even what WCKD could erase.
Relationships: Minho & Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Newt & Thomas (Maze Runner), Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner), THATS gonna be a slow burn friendship, Teresa Agnes & Minho (Maze Runner), Teresa Agnes & Newt (Maze Runner), Teresa Agnes & Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [growingrogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growingrogue/gifts).



> HIIIIIIII! 
> 
> This fic was inspired by a tumblr post by grxnite: "if you watch the maze runner series backwards it’s about a guy who saves the mysterious writer of a love letter from becoming a zombie and they risk everything to escape a city and start a farm together and this is a much better ending"
> 
> This lit SUCH a fire under my ass. And I went and outlined an entire universe that is like... a couple over and two up from the original, as far as the multiverse is concerned. 
> 
> This chapter was a crazy, "the world is falling apart and i need escapism" haze, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. If you want to read more, give kudos and/or a comment. It's not going to be updated too fast-- I really want to get these right-- but it will be regularly updated. Probably one chapter per 1-2 weeks.
> 
> Anyway, I love this story, and I hope you like it. <3 Follow grxnite on tumblr and her AO3 at growingrogue. My tumblr is AphroditesTummyRolls.

_The air smelled like a storm. The still, thick heat of it clung to him, sticking his shirt to his skin. It felt as if he was submerged in a hot bath rather than looking out over the hauntingly familiar fields at the crest of the hill where home was._

_Was it home? It had to be-- right? He wasn’t sure if there was any other word for it, or any other place he’d been, for that matter._

_The grass was lush between his bare toes, and he rooted himself into the warm earth. The anticipation of it all hung in the electrified atmosphere-- like the whole world was holding its breath for the moment when the clouds would break. Tension ran along his spine like a divining rod, permeating the young man right down to his bones._

_He was waiting for the storm, looking out on the roofs of the small community and watching with a benign curiosity, wondering why he wasn’t feeling anything more. He knew he should, but the emotion was dulled. There was so much in his brain that was being held back, blurred beyond recognition._

_He waited for the storm to break in his mind; waiting for the rain to clean off the smudges in his head._

_On the other side of the small copse of houses and rubble-strewn paths, there was a hulking shadow against the sky. It was an airship unlike anything he’d ever seen before, but somehow, he knew he recognized it. The white tower symbol of WCKD was painted on its side, standing out like a beacon on the smooth, nearly black metal. It was called a Berg, he knew somewhere in his mind, and it was poised on the edge of the town, bustling with activity, even in the night. Was it night? Or just dark?_

_They had claimed that they were there to help. He remembered a pinched face with a keen, icy gaze swimming up in his mind’s eye. He had a simpering smile and the embroidered insignia of WCKD emblazoned on his jacket. Everything about him was meant to be calming, but there was something sinister in him that the young man couldn’t place. He knew something wasn’t right from the second the rat-faced man looked out at them all and said that they were_ “here to help.” 

_He felt like he was seeing his memories from the bottom of a deep pool, looking up at the surface and listening to the garbled noise getting louder and louder--_

_If they were there to help, then why was it that no one had been sick before WCKD got there?_

_He shook his head to clear it of the image of the rat-faced man, a sudden surge of anger flooding up through his core until his hands balled themselves into trembling fists. Faces flashed before his eyes-- light skinned and dark, male and female, all of them young but one. Her eyes were weathered and kind, but her skin was pallid and shiny with sweat. All of them were sick-- sick, or tortured by watching the others slip away. All of them were people he knew he called_ family. 

_He didn’t just remember, he_ knew. 

_The clouds were moving quicker overhead, filling every inch of the horizon with deep, ominous gray. The air crackled with electricity, thunder rumbling closer by the second. There was a whisper of a breeze sweeping across the fields and ruffling the trees in the distance. The rage, the desperation, the crippling fear of not knowing what was behind him or what was ahead-- they all collided inside him. Flashes of faces came in fits and starts, the voices behind him calling out in their unintelligible garble. He knew they were talking to him, but he was unable to turn around--_

_“Tommy--” a choked voice came from just behind him, a whisper against the shell of his ear, nearly swallowed by the next growl of the storm. But he heard it. His heart flipped in his chest, and a ragged breath was sucked down into his lungs._

He _was Tommy. That was_ his name _._

_The humidity shattered, and a clap of thunder shook the ground beneath him. First, there was a single, solitary droplet of rain. Then, a sudden downpour as the clouds burst and lightning blinded him._

_The voice spoke again, no longer a whisper in his ear, but amplified like it was over a loudspeaker. It came from all sides. “P-Please, Tommy. Please.”_

_He whipped around to face the voice, only to be met with a flash of lightning and an empty hilltop._

_“Tommy!” the voice came again._

_The rain soaked through his short hair, streaming in rivulets over his face and blurring his vision as he desperately whirled around on his heel. He blundered around like a blind man in the dark, looking for the source of the voice-- he was calling out to him. Whoever he was, he_ needed _him._

_His vision swam, the blunted edges of his emotions suddenly going raw and sharp, his frenzied heart beating in his throat. The voice was so familiar, and he wanted to call back, but he didn’t know who to call for. Even when he thought as hard as he could, rifling through every fragment of memory in his mind, there was no name that he could say that felt right._

_There were no names in his head, period. As if all those faces still up in the gallery in his mind had nothing deeper behind them-- he couldn’t remember. He didn’t remember his family._

_“Tommy?” the voice was close again, right beside him, barely able to be parsed out from the constant static of the rain falling around them. He shot out a hand in an attempt to keep whoever they were still-- to let Tommy look at them._

_When his fingers clamped down around a thin wrist, he felt his stomach drop, knotting itself in his gut. There was so much flooding his head from the moment they made contact, Tommy couldn’t focus on a single thing. The kaleidoscope of feelings slipped between the holes in his brain, and all he could do was ground himself in the fact that he_ belonged _wherever he could be with the man attached to this wrist. Gripping tight, he felt the thud of a steady heartbeat under his hand for one unbearably long moment before he brought himself to turn and look._

_He was young. They were both young-- right?_

_Tommy suddenly felt very old, as if the world had been turning without him and then suddenly placed him back on the earth like a disused game piece. Something tightened in his chest, though, his eyes trying to commit every feature of the face in front of him to his wholly unreliable memory._

_He was young, like Tommy was young, but his deep brown eyes held a wisdom that said maybe he was a little bit older. He was unaffected by the soaking swirl of the storm overhead, his blond hair only gently buffeted by the wind on the hill. It was long enough to cover his ears and fall in his eyes, and his smile was small, but genuine when he fixed his gaze on Tommy’s._

_He was frozen to the spot, again, still holding tight to the wrist under his hand. But this time, he didn’t want to move-- Tommy wanted to stay and look into that face for as long as he was allowed. He wanted to remember everything, and he knew, deep in the core of him, that this was the key to everything._

_“I don’t know what to do.” he finally managed to spit out the words, each one pulled from inside his mouth like a rotten tooth, painful and toxic. He couldn’t remember how long they’d been festering there, but they needed to come out._

_The blond only smiled, taking a measured step closer to him that brought him further into focus. He looked earnest and tired, his skinny frame finally starting to get damp with the rain, his hair falling into his face-- “It’s all bigger than they’ll let us see. Tommy, you can figure this out.”_

_He was shaking his head as if it was beyond his control, not knowing what he was refuting-- not knowing_ anything _._

_The blond raised his free hand and used it to cup his jaw, holding him still and forcing their gazes to meet._

_“You can’t give up. I won’t let you.”_

_He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream-- what was it? What couldn’t he give up? Tommy tried to open his mouth and speak again, but his tongue was too heavy, there were too many words to say-- what was he supposed to do?_

_With a blink, the blond’s face suddenly came into sharper focus. Tommy could see the deep circles under his eyes and the way his soft skin paled to a sickly gray. Lightning flashed again and thunder shook the ground, rain soaking through the blond’s hair and turning it to a dark, slick brown-- he shivered against the cold._

_Was it cold? Tommy didn’t feel it, he was still broiling in the summer storm._

_The blond slipped his eyes shut for a second, dark lashes splaying over his cheekbones before he opened them again, fixed on Tommy. But they had changed, going bloodshot and glazed with fever. He choked and sputtered, suddenly coughing out a viscous black fluid over his lips, and Tommy couldn’t step away. He gripped the wrist under his hand impossibly tighter--_

_But he faded with the whole of the village and the hilltop with a flash of lightning, and Tommy held nothing._

_The scene changed. Under his feet, there was no more grass, only smooth concrete and a ruff hewn rug. The hot, wild wind of the fields was replaced by the crackle of a controlled fire in a hearth. There was no blond, no fever, no dark eyes fixed on him._

_He was warm and dry-- at home. This was home, right?_

_The cots used to be in two neat rows down the space. If he walked through the threshold at the back, he’d find a warm, neat kitchenette. Herbs hung from the ceiling there, dried and stored in the early spring sunshine. There was a trapdoor in the bottom of the pantry that led to the cellar. Homebrewed moonshine and canned harvests waited there. He remembered it like it was right in front of his face._

_But now, the cots were all pushed away to the back walls, going cold under the windows where the last of the winter chill could still seep in. All the cots except one._

_Young faces milled around the space. They were faces he recognized, people he knew. Their jaws were set against the fear that could only be seen in the red-rimmed shine of their eyes. All of them had their gazes fixed on_ something-- _their hands, the stained concrete floor, a stray thread on their bed sheets,_ anything-- _only ever daring to flick their eyes over to the cot in front of the glowing fire for a few seconds. As if seeing it made the horror too real to bear._

_There was a young woman perched on the edge of the bed, her lip wobbling and her unwashed brown hair falling in stringy locks out of the messy bun she’d tied._

_“Teresa--” he felt his mouth moving, he heard his voice form the words, but it didn’t feel like he was the one speaking “Teresa, you need to get some sleep.”_

_“Thomas’s right.” a reedy, broken voice rasped out from the person in the bed. The skin around her eyes was weathered, but the remains of her smile was still kind through her cracked lips. “Get some sleep-- you’ve done everything you can do, my love.”_

_The girl-- Teresa-- was shaking her head, tears clumping in her eyelashes and slipping down her cheeks. Biting her lip against a sob, she gripped tighter to the older woman’s hand. Unable to think, unable to stop himself, Thomas found himself walking over to the pair of them, reaching out to pull his friend away._

_She was solid and real under his hand, something he hadn’t expected-- as if he thought she’d fade into mist if he made contact. Like a ghost, or a memory. He still felt the heat of the blond’s wrist against his palm from where he’d slipped out of his grasp, and he tried to hold on tighter to the girl in front of him._

_He could do better this time._

_The woman in the bed was both shadowed and lit up with yellow firelight right down the center of her face, making her look impossibly gaunter. She was webbed with grayish blue veins that stood out against her sallow skin, creeping up her neck and onto her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and her irises were like ink, only thinly rimmed with their usual clear blue._

_She wouldn’t last the night. How could he pull Teresa away from her now? Something in him, though, told him that she couldn’t stay for whatever happened next. None of them could._

_“Baby, go--”_

_“I won’t let you die, Mom--”_

_“I can’t have you see me like that-- remember me how I was, Teresa, don’t-- don’t be here when I… I can’t let myself hurt you.” the words slurred, stumbling over her tongue and leaving her breathless from the effort. Tears slipped down the sides of her face and into her hair._

_“You won’t-- I’m gonna save you. I can fix this--”_

_“TERESA. GO.” she finally cried, getting cut off with a rattling cough, spitting out a vitriolic black fluid that stained her lips as she did. Her eyes seemed to get darker, even in the half-light of the fire. “And take everyone upstairs before I go.”_

_Thomas took the hint when the woman in the bed flicked her gaze over to him in a silent request._

_“C’mon, Teresa.” He said, gripping her around the arm as gently as he could, trying to pull her away._

_“NO--”_

_“I’m doing this because I love you!” her mother called out to her, “Because I love all of you--”_

_Thomas pulled her up and tried to steer her away, even as she sobbed and begged-- she kept saying that she_ could do it, _that she_ could help, _she_ wouldn’t let her go-- 

_Another pair of hands came up beside Thomas’s, and he flicked his gaze over and did a double take at a familiar blond boy. He had a set jaw and tear tracks on his face. His skin held more color, his eyes were clearer, and he met Thomas’s gaze as if the rain storm had never happened._

_He took Teresa’s other arm and together they tugged her away from the fire, towards the stairs--_

He woke with a jolt, his vision popping with stars, wobbling shapes coming into view as blurry shadows against a bright white light. 

Everything ached. His muscles cramped and throbbed as if the blood was being wrung out of his veins, and he tried to groan out some type of sound-- something to say, _Stop, please stop, I can’t do it anymore._

He had no idea how long it had been. 

Blinking furiously against the blur in front of his eyes, he tried to gather the strength to _at least_ sit up-- he could sit up. He could do it. 

_I can sit up,_ he tried to will it into existence, a rasping, high-pitched whine slipping past his dry, cracked lips as he made the attempt to find purchase on the soft surface beneath him. He whimpered, trembling with the effort, palms sliding uselessly against papery sheets until someone was taking it in their own, forcing him to stop and be still. 

The hand was solid and real, and it was familiar enough that, when he opened his eyes next, he finally managed to blink them into focus. 

There was a young woman hovering above him. She had a long face, intelligent blue eyes that studied his face carefully, and her clean brown hair fell in wispy strands out of the messy bun she’d tied on top of her head. 

He _knew_ her. She had been screaming. She had been broken by grief, he had held her back-- 

“T-Ter…” he forced his mouth to work, his tongue heavy and unwieldy in his mouth and his jaw aching like he’d been punched, “Teresa..?” 

He must’ve said the wrong thing. He must’ve done _something_ wrong, because her brow crumpled in confusion, her smart gaze filling with a sudden uncertainty. There was a question on her pursed lips, but she was cut off before Thomas could say it again. Before he could try to get all of the half-formed memories of his dreams out into the open air where he could get answers-- 

“Agnes, don’t get too close to him during the extraction--” a voice cut through, clear and sharp. Teresa immediately jerked back, as if she’d been shocked. Her hand left Thomas’s, and he tried again to get up. 

Where was he? Where had they been? How did they know each other? Who was the blond boy with the dark eyes? Why was this happening? _What_ was _this?_

Why wasn’t Thomas at home? Was _this_ home now? Why did everything hurt? 

“He’s never woken up like this before. He looks… lost. Confused? Like he should be somewhere else--” 

“What did he call you?” the authoritative voice cut in, stressing every syllable. 

“I…” she trailed off, and Thomas could feel his heart pounding uselessly in his chest. Terror gripped him like a vice, but he didn’t know why, anticipating her response. “I don’t know. I couldn’t hear him.” 

The last thing he remembered was the all-consuming rush of relief as the walls closed in, and he was plunged back into pitch darkness. 

* * *

They were kept in a clean, bare room. He used to think that it had always been that way-- just the two of them with their two beds, their two dressers full of nondescript clothes—but he thought now, maybe there used to be a bigger room, with more beds. 

There used to be more of them. 

_Why else would they call us A1 and A7?_ He wondered, his foggy brain finally clawing its way back to consciousness, _What happened to 2 through 6?_

He woke up in his bed, eyes fluttering open only to be blinded by harsh, white light. He flinched, the brightness burning his sensitive eyes, making his brain contract and throb with his sluggish pulse. Everything in him seemed to be sucked away, leaving his muscles sapped of all strength, his organs cramping, and his skin brittle. Thomas felt like every part of him could break apart at any second. 

His head lolled to the side, eyes squeezing shut tight. His skull weighed a hundred pounds, he was sure of it. 

_Maybe they finally took too much,_ he griped morbidly, _Maybe I’ll just be another body on their scrap heap, like all the rest of them._

Thomas saw more ghostly faces in the red light on the inside of his eyelids. There was a short boy with thick, curly hair; a dark-skinned man with straight, strong posture; a younger man with black hair that fell in his eyes. Thomas felt his lip wobble dangerously, a deep abyss opening up in his gut and threatening to swallow him whole. 

His heart clenched around the trickle of blood he still had left. He _grieved_ , but he didn’t know why. 

“I know you’re awake, Drama Queen.” A7’s voice cut into his reverie, a tinge of genuine worry weighing down his light tone. “Just keep in mind that you’re still hooked up, whenever you decide to come back to the world.” 

He could feel it now-- the itch of the thick IV needle in his arm; the softness of the sheets underneath his body; the cool, recirculated air that made his skin erupt in goosebumps and a shiver run up his back. 

A friendly hand pushed his hair back from his forehead, and it was all Thomas could do to lean into the touch, giving his friend proof of life. 

_I can open my eyes,_ he told himself, _I can open my eyes, I can open my eyes--_

“Then do it, Ace.” Seven chuckled, “You’ve been out way longer than usual.” 

Thomas’s eyes flew open and he fixed his gaze on his friend, wondering when WCKD had started experimenting on giving them telepathy. 

Seven rolled his eyes and leaned back on his hands, watching Thomas with a wry smirk from the neighboring bed. “You’ve been talking to yourself.” 

Oh. That made more sense. 

It took Thomas altogether _far_ too long to process everything, his heart returning to something like normal. At least, normal for them, after an extraction. 

He nodded weakly against the pillow, trying to lift his head even though he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. He wanted to see that blond hair again-- he needed to find out what the tall, skinny _not-stranger_ wanted him to do. Who was he? 

“Okay, _okay--_ relax.” his friend shushed his aborted, jerky attempts to sit, all of his usual sarcasm evaporating as he manhandled Thomas into an acceptable position. “You almost ripped out your IV-- just _ask_. I’ll help you.” he sighed, perching himself on the edge of Thomas’s bed. 

“It’s a good thing you woke up when you did. If you’d taken any longer, Dr. Paige would’ve probably come back to check on you.” he muttered conspiratorially, only for his ears. 

No one else was in the room. 

_Dr. Paige._ Thomas thought hard for a minute, wading upstream through his frazzled mind before he connected the dots. The woman with the authoritative voice calling Teresa _Agnes—_ that was Dr. Paige. He conjured up the image of a severe, blonde bun tied tightly at the back of a pale, hawkish face. A bone-deep dread curled in his gut. 

He was very glad that he woke up, too. 

Seven smiled at him, genuine and bright, trying to keep their little world spinning. Thomas managed one in return, slowly feeling the return of blood and fluids to his parched cells. Seven always gave him a sense of stability-- he was the one thing in their grueling lives of experiments, extractions, and examinations, that felt like _home._

Looking at him now, though, Thomas felt his gut twist with a sick recognition. In his mind, he could hear Teresa screaming, and thunder rumbling ominously. 

A7 felt like home, because that’s where he was _from._

Thomas knew him. Just like he knew the dark-skinned man, and the curly haired boy, and the black haired one. It was just like he knew Teresa and that mysterious blond--

He knew Seven _before_ this. Before the facility and Dr. Paige. Before WCKD. 

Thomas must’ve had some type of _look_ on his face throughout his epiphany, because his friend’s eyes had narrowed with skepticism, like he thought Thomas was pulling a prank or telling a bad joke. But Thomas couldn’t blink the shock out of his wide eyes or keep his jaw from hanging off of his face. Seven didn’t have a shred of his usual nonchalance, studying Thomas like he was about to explode. 

It was as if this had happened before. 

“Ace?” he breathed, swallowing hard “Why’re you looking at me like that?” 

He flicked his gaze over Seven’s open, concerned face, taking him in like each part was another memory-- he remembered the smell of plowed fields, and strong-brewed moonshine snuck out of the cellar; he felt the heat of late summer bonfires, and the thrill of racing from tree to tree-- 

It had been him-- _Thomas--_ and Seven, and that tall, skinny blond with the sharp tongue and the wise eyes--

“D’you… Do you _know_ me?” 

He blurted the words out before he could think to stop himself. Seven’s eyes widened almost comically, darting around the room as if someone else was there to hear them. 

He dared to glance at the locked door, clearing his throat before he fixed his eyes back on Thomas.

“Of course I know you. You’re A1WCKD-- we’re the key to saving the Last City.” he enunciated every word, louder than strictly necessary. Like a performance. 

Seven reached out his hand and squeezed Thomas’s, a tense gleam in his eye that said _Shut up-- shut up right now!_

But it was too late.

The click of heels on polished tile reverberated down the corridor and through the thick metal of the door. Thomas felt his hands go clammy, and he swallowed against the sudden clench of cold fear spreading through his veins.

He fucked it up again. He could feel it in his bones. He could see it, plain as day in Seven’s eyes.

There was the muted, mechanical click and hissing of the opening door. Thomas’s mind was suddenly cleared of all blockages—it was as if a dam broke, letting the memories that were held at bay come thundering through on the spiky heels of the prim woman in the threshold.

_He was on the Berg. They were all on the Berg, their feet unsteady as the engines roared and pitched them upward into the sky._

_There had been seven of them. A dark-skinned man, a curly haired boy, and the one with jet black hair falling his eyes. Once, they had huddled together upstairs while their mother died alone. A long time ago, they had run and played in the fields together as children._

_They all stood together again, crowded shoulder to shoulder in what could only be described as a pen. Seven was next to him, and a familiar blond head was propped up between them. He looked pale and weak, but Thomas only felt a surge of relief as he looked at him. The blond met his gaze, and his eyes were warm and brown, without inky black, blown pupils or the glaze of fever._

_He quirked his lips in a wry little smile. It was a piss poor attempt at calming the rush of nerves, or the reality of being held captive and stolen from home. Thomas still smiled back._

_The cabin of the ship shook unexpectedly, and Thomas caught his friend at the waist when he stumbled, sharing a grim look with Seven. Teresa turned around, studying the blond carefully._

_“How’re you feeling?” she whispered, swiping a hand up to his brow and flipping his hands over. She studied his forearms as if she was expecting something that she didn’t find._

_“Bloody brilliant.” He sighed. She pursed her lips at him, and Thomas felt the blond deflate further against him and Seven. His voice softened. “I’m fine. Really—bit of a miracle, that treatment you used.”_

_She smiled, but it didn’t reach her sad eyes “At least I could help_ someone _.”_

_“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Thomas heard himself say “It’s not like anyone else knows how to treat this thing.”_

_“Yeah—if WCKD already knew, we wouldn’t be here.” Seven cut in. “If we really are immune, they need us.”_

_“Oh, yes. Lucky you, then.” Blondie huffed a tired laugh, gripping both of his friends’ shoulders as the ship lurched again. “I’m not immune. What do they want with me--?”_

_The click of heels was barely audible over the constant growl of the engines and the propellers, but they all paused when they heard it. A smart-looking woman with a sharp face and white suit clicked her way to stand in front of the bars of their cage. Her skin seemed pulled taut from the tightness of the platinum blonde bun at the nape of her neck— it seemed like the only thing that tugged up the corners of her red lips into a gentile smile._

_Thomas hoped she wasn’t trying to be reassuring. It was far from working._

_“Your survival and recovery are something we’ve never seen.” She stated, matter-of-fact, with a smile on her red lips that could almost be called kind, “You’re a miracle, yourself. 24 hours with no symptoms.” she shook her head incredulously, her gaze darting from the blond’s face, to his forearms, to the column of his throat. Like Teresa, it seemed like she was looking for something. “We’ll have to watch you closely. And you—“_

_Teresa tensed under the woman’s shrewd brown eyes, and Thomas and Seven both inched just the slightest bit closer to her. Something was very wrong behind the smiles of these people._

_“That was an incredible display of medical knowledge, for someone so young and so far from any real education.” the condescension wasn’t lost on them, “Where did you learn?”_

_“My mother.” Teresa replied, her voice swallowed by the engines. Across the cabin, the rat-faced man watched closely, eyes gleaming and arms crossed. “She— she was the only healer in The Glade. She taught me my wh-whole life.”_

_The woman only nodded, studying the group of them for a long moment before breaking into a beatific smile. Her teeth were as white as her suit, and Thomas vaguely wondered if they were also as sharp as her heels._

_“And what was your name, Sweetheart?” It was simpering and sweet, and reminded Thomas of the man who claimed that WCKD was “there to help”._

_Teresa was far from fooled, but she had no choice but to tell her._

_“And how about you, Miracle?”_

_Terror gripped Thomas’s heart when the woman’s eyes zeroed in on the blond still leaned between him and Seven. His hand tightened where it still rested around his waist, and he worked his jaw. Seven also stepped closer, his brown eyes hard and ready to fight._

_Blondie forced himself to stand straighter, his own jaw raised defiantly. A complicated swirl of emotion swooped up through Thomas’s gut as his friend pushed himself to stand. The woman’s gaze was like an x ray, but Blondie just looked right back._

_“Newt.”_

_Newt. Of course, it was_ Newt. _Thomas remembered his name with a clenching feeling in his chest, like his ribs were all constricted in a vice— and then he felt like he could breathe again. How could he forget that name?_

 _She nodded again, still smiling, “I’m Dr. Ava Paige, Director of WCKDs pharmaceutical science division. This is my associate, Janson.” She pointed blandly over to the rat-faced man behind her. “The seven of you_ are _very lucky— to be immune to the Flare is a rare gift. To survive it, even more so. We came here to help you, and now, you get to help us.”_

_The silence settled, thick and heavy over the pen they were huddled in, dulling even the roar of the engines. Dr. Paige continued smiling._

_“Janson!” She suddenly called out, making them all jump as she cut through the background static of the Berg. “Janson, take Teresa and Newt to separate accommodations—“_

_“Wait, no—“_

_“What?” Thomas and Seven both cried out, cutting into her orders. She paid them no mind._

_“— they’ll be requiring different studies.” She turned back to them and smiled again, as if they hadn’t said a thing. “Thank you, gentlemen.”_

_Janson swung open the door with a grating shriek, and the last things Thomas remembered were the yells of him and his friends, trying to hold Newt and Teresa back— her eyes were wide and frightened, and he gripped Thomas’s hand as he was manhandled away—_

“A1–“ 

The scene changed again, but this time, it was because his eyes were blinking open into reality. There was a face hovering over him, but it wasn’t Teresa, or Newt, or Seven. 

Dr. Paige’s smile was hard to read. For once, it wasn’t hollow and sweet. There was an edge of bitterness that he didn’t understand. Bitterness and something else, something that made her nearly human. 

It was unsettling. 

Like she knew it wasn’t working, the smile slipped off her face, and Thomas could see the way her shoulders sagged a little with exhaustion.

“There’s something I need you to hear.” She started, speaking low and serious, “The Flare has been ravaging this city for nearly two years now— so many people gone, so many lives ruined. WCKD is trying to help them. _You_ can help them, Thomas.” 

Her hand rested on his shoulder, sliding down along his skin until her fingers reached the IV port that was constantly attached to the crook of his elbow. There was a new bag of fluids sitting close by— it was a viscous blue, and a chill settled in his gut that said he knew what it was. He jerked his arm away, out from under her strange, gentle touch, and to his surprise, she let him. 

Dr. Paige sighed, “You have to understand, Thomas— _why_ we do this. Everything I do is for _you_ and all of _them_ —“ she gestured broadly out into the world, “and for all the test subjects we’ve lost…'' she swallowed, looking older than before. “We need a cure. And for that, I need _her._ Agnes is the most promising student I’ve ever had, and I can’t let you jeopardize her progress—“ 

“Her name is Teresa, and she’s my _sister_ —“ Thomas snapped, a sudden surge of anger inflating in his chest, “Where is she? What does she know? Where’s N—“

“She understands what’s at stake!” Dr. Paige’s control finally slipped, and she stood from the bedside. Her tone was just the slightest bit frenzied— like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “She knows the sacrifices that need to be made for the greater good!” 

Silence reigned over the room. Dr. Paige massaged her brow with a manicured hand. Thomas was helpless to do anything but sit there, strapped down on a bed with a needle in his arm, a bag of blue fluids about to wash away every bit of his life that he’d regained—

“I _hate_ you.” 

It was hissed out through his teeth, his eyes going hot and his throat dry and tight— his vision swam, but he saw the way she turned to look at him. 

His words had hurt her. He could see it, even through his tears. 

“Well, not for long. Soon, you won’t feel anything at all, A1.” 

_We’ll see about that,_ he thought, closing his eyes and steeling himself for the rush of the blue liquid, the burn of his memories being seared out of him. _I’ve remembered before. I can remember again._

She was rough as she hooked the bag up to his port, but he didn’t let himself wince at the pain when the needle dug deeper into his flesh, jostling inside his vein. 

He thought hard, picturing a stormy hilltop and feeling a warm pulse against his fingers. He dreamt up blond hair that brushed skinny shoulders, and wise brown eyes that studied Thomas like he was someone worth something _more._

 _I don’t know what to do._ That was what he’d said before, during the storm. But this time, Newt smiled at him differently. Thomas could swear he felt the sun on his skin. 

_Yes, you do._ He replied, _You know now._

He slipped his wrist from Thomas’s grasp, instead tangling their hands together and squeezing tight.

_You can’t give up. I won’t let you._

He held onto Newt’s hand as the burning started, biting his tongue against the pain for as long as he could before he couldn’t help the screams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! Sorry it's been so much longer than I wanted it to be-- I had an existential crisis. But hopefully, that won't happen again too soon. You can start counting on the 1-2 week update schedule. If a chapter is going to be later than that, I'll probably post about it on my tumblr. 
> 
> But I'm actually kinda glad it took so long to write this one, because it is LONG and A LOT happens in it. Here's a couple triggers you might want to be on the lookout for: suicide of a minor character (it's a flashback, and it's sad, but not graphic), and there's a lot of mentions of blood and needles, and a pretty in depth description of The Flare symptoms. If there's anything else that you think I should tag for you folks, let me know! 
> 
> As always, please let me know if you like it! The more comments and kudos and such, the faster you're likely to get an update! <3 Thanks!

He tried to take stock of the basics. 

They lived in a bare room. 

He assumed _they_ — meaning plural— because of the state of the space. There were two dressers full of matching, WCKD-issued scrubs, and two beds with matching, WCKD-issued sheets. The air was cool and recirculated. The floors were cold tile that made him flinch when he dared to set his bare feet on the ground. 

A fine tremble in his fingers and a flutter in his heart seemed to shake him at his core, making him feel like he was vibrating. His muscles ached and it took a long minute for his eyes to focus themselves. 

The door was nothing more than a heavy metal slab, perpetually locked. There was a small window into their room that looked out into a long, sleek corridor full of paned glass laboratories. Beyond that, he could just barely make out a bright blue sky and far-away city. There was something about it that made him swallow hard, a writhing pit of unease opening in his gut-- he felt _trapped_. There was something about that window that gave him the distinct impression that it wasn’t for them to look out of, but for someone else to look in at them. 

He slipped on his shoes and _tried_ to take stock of the basics. 

Everything about him seemed blocked off in his mind, as far away as the distant skyscrapers of the city through the window. The WCKD-issued room felt as fine as a foreign place could, he supposed. He figured that he lived there— it seemed to click. It felt right.

It felt _right,_ yes. But it didn’t feel _safe._

There was no immediate danger, everything was _fine._ But there was still the ominous overhang of _not knowing_. He had no real concept of who he was, where he was, or why he was there. 

It wasn’t a home _._ It was just a bare room in a foreboding building of a mysterious city, and it sent prickles up and down his spine to think that _he couldn’t leave._ Wracking his brain, he tried to think beyond the dam in his head, looking for answers to his questions, a concrete reason for the way his stomach was cramping up with nerves—

He might not know much beyond these four walls-- or even much about himself-- but he knew that he hated the sensation of _not knowing_. 

He looked closer, scanning the room for clues, when his eyes landed on the matching beds. 

There was supposed to be someone else in that other bed. He could see the indent in the covers, and it sent a ripple of apprehension up his spine. Someone was _missing,_ and he was worried— but he couldn’t place why. 

Beyond the other bed was the back wall. A small alcove led to a separated bathroom through a threshold in the corner. A shelf was built into the wall beside it, where there was a scattering of books and pens, and an old deck of cards that he was immediately drawn to. The feeling of the soft, feathered edges on laminated cardstock steadied his hands a little. It felt calm and warm-- like a friend.

He pictured a face in his mind, holding the deck like his sense memories could tell him who he shared this room with— who he was so worried about. 

The person he visualized was young like him. He had almond-shaped eyes and thick dark hair, and an undertone of gold in his skin that Thomas couldn’t help but think suited him. He didn’t know how he remembered this guy’s personality, but he knew he was solid and strong, with untarnishable vibrancy. 

The background of the image was too bright to see, the blockage in his mind pushing back against his efforts. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his brow furrowed as he tried to concentrate on the man in front of him. 

He was trying to talk to him— a smile on his lips and laughter in his eyes. He couldn’t hear the words but he felt the warmth of a happy memory. 

_Seven… A7— but that wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right._ Muscle memory brought the sounds to the tip of his tongue, but they felt clumsy and garbled. He furrowed his brow, swiping the fog out of his head, trying to remember.

The face of the other man was grinning in his mind, head thrown back and laughing-- _probably at me,_ he thought. A chuckle of his own lifted a little of the heaviness in his chest, and he focused harder.

The guy was trying to speak to him. He was chuckling, rolling his eyes at something that he must’ve said. He had no idea what it was— it was nothing more than warbling, shapeless sounds— but his friend leveled him with a skeptical eyebrow and a smirk. The tone was clear, and despite not knowing what the words were, he felt a rosy flush rise in his cheeks. 

He was being teased. His friend was teasing him about something that made him feel warm-- 

_Minho._

He whispered the name as he thought of it, the syllables sitting just right in his mouth and rolling off his tongue. He knew he was right. He could feel the puzzle pieces shifting, one more thing sliding into place. 

With his eyes lasered in on the memory, he focused everything he had on reading Minho’s lips as he said _his name_. 

His name was A1WC… No, his name was _Thomas_. 

So, what were the basics now? 

His name was Thomas, and he had a friend named Minho. He could feel it in the deck in his hands and the memory of the sunny day in his head. 

The overwhelming wave of relief nearly took him to his knees, and he dropped himself heavily onto the bed. He _knew_ something-- he knew more than he thought he did. He took a steadying breath in and held it, spreading his hands out on the sheets under him as if those could help him remember, too. 

He didn’t remember anything-- instead, he was seized by a sudden clench of anxiety that dug its claws into his throat. 

Jumping off the bed, flexing his knuckles and shaking away the sensation like he’d been electrocuted, Thomas was left with the distinct impression that all of this— one of the two of them waking up alone, worrying about the other— wasn’t out of the ordinary. He could _feel_ it. In a world of loose puzzle pieces, worrying seemed like the one thing that he always came back to. The whole entirety of their little quarters felt _permeated_ by worry, as if every time one of them left, the other did just what Thomas was doing now. 

He swallowed hard, and took a deep breath. 

So, what were the basics? 

His name was Thomas. He lived in WCKD captivity. He had a friend named Minho, and they worried about each other. They liked to play cards. Or maybe, all they _had to do_ was play cards. 

They lived in a room, in a building, in a city— and suddenly, the world felt less foggy. Everything was sharp and visceral, tugging behind his navel and making him nearly sick as he remembered. A series of flashes swam up in his mind’s eye, and Thomas felt a sharp tug under his breastbone. He was jolted back into a memory, gripping the headboard of the nearest bed. 

_We’re the key to saving the Last City,_ a familiar voice echoed into his addled head. The phrase bounced around in his skull, and Thomas hated it. 

The first thing he really _saw_ was the, now familiar, face of Minho. But now, he wasn’t smirking at Thomas. There was no gentle teasing in his tone, or mischief in his eyes. His expression was properly _terrified_. As if Thomas had said something wrong. 

_You fucked up again,_ chimed a dark voice in his head, _you fucked up— maybe that’s why he’s gone._

But no, that wasn’t it. There was more. 

His friend— _Seven— no. Minho_ — had said “ _Of course I know you. You’re A1WCKD— we’re the key to saving the Last City.”_

_Then there was the clicking of measured footsteps and a creeping dread that seeped in through his skin, into his bones. Those footsteps brought the tremble back into his hands and seized his veins._

_“There’s something I need you to hear.” a woman’s voice cut into his thoughts, “The Flare has been ravaging this city for nearly two years now— so many people gone, so many lives ruined. WCKD is trying to help them. You can help them, Thomas.” Her hand had rested on his shoulder, and slid down along his skin until her fingers reached the IV port that was constantly attached to the crook of his elbow._

Blinded by the memory, Thomas ran his hand from his left wrist and up his forearm like his skin was made of braille. He felt where the port adhered to his skin, accompanied by the chilling sensation of it deep in his vein. He swallowed, his gut flipping. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at it. 

_There had been a bag of fluids sitting close by. It was a viscous blue, and he jerked his arm away from under this woman’s strange, gentle touch, and to his surprise, she let him._

_She sighed; her red lips pursed as if she had any right to be disappointed in him._

Every part of him burned with contempt where he sat in the present, there in their room. 

_“You have to understand, Thomas—why we do this. Everything I do is for you and all of them—”_ she _gestured broadly out into the world, “and to all the test subjects we’ve lost…'' she swallowed, looking older than before. “We need a cure. And for that, I need her. Agnes is the most promising student I’ve ever had, and I can’t let you jeopardize her progress—"_

_“Her name is Teresa, and she’s my sister—"_

Teresa. He had a sister? 

His name was Thomas. He had a friend and he had a sister. Both of them were in trouble. _Thomas_ was in trouble, too. 

He remembered an acidic burning sensation tearing through him, cramping his muscles and searing his brain— cauterizing him from his past, and shutting him into a floating, empty haze. But he also remembered the sensation of a hand squeezing his as the pain took over. It was a familiar, grounding weight that steadied his racing heart a little. 

Thomas flexed his hand and squeezed it into a fist. Once, and then twice, he could swear that strong, skinny fingers gripped onto his, holding him tight as if they refused to be forgotten. 

But they _had_ been—that was the infuriating thing. Thomas had no memory of anything beyond a hand. From his place on Minho’s bed, he sat ramrod straight, took a deep breath, and tried to _focus._

He imagined a skinny wrist and a steady pulse, and tried to imagine the attachment of an arm, a shoulder, and a body. He _needed_ to remember this person’s face-- the urgency wrapped itself around his heart, pounding under the pressure. He furrowed his brow and set his jaw, focusing every shred of erratic energy on the blurry wall in his mind that kept him from seeing the person’s face. 

He tried. He tried until his head ached and his hairline was slick with sweat. But still, there was nothing but the ghost of that comforting pressure on his palm. 

Maybe it was his sister. Maybe it was Minho. 

The door hissed open before he could think any deeper, and he craned his neck around to look at the open threshold. There were two guards on the other side, decked out in WCKD insignias-- they looked ready for battle, not transporting an unarmed man barely older than a teenager. 

Somehow, despite that, things felt _normal_. 

Well, as normal as things could feel with all frames of reference blurred and out of reach. The motions of the day were familiar, though-- as if Thomas had _always_ done this. 

First, there was breakfast-- a bowl of some type of hot, bland mush intended only to keep him healthy and full. It certainly wasn’t supposed to taste good. If it was, somebody was seriously failing at their job. 

He ate until he was told to stop. That was what he was supposed to do. It was like a dance he’d learned in a past life, or song lyrics that came to him only after he heard the tune-- this was what he was _supposed_ to do. 

Then, he was led out into the hallway and down past the panes of glass that separated him from lab after lab. People in white coats, sometimes with masks and gloves, milled around. There were microscopes and silently blinking machines-- but Thomas could’ve picked out each one just for the sound it made, if anyone asked him. 

Not that they would-- no one ever _really_ asked him anything-- but it meant something indescribable to him to know that he _could_. 

He _recognized_ these machines. 

_I’ve been in that room, and that one, and that one,_ he told himself, willing every slippery fragment of memory into his mind. He picked them out as he walked, placing the pieces into some semblance of order, as best as he could, before they came to a stop in front of their first destination. Thomas nearly walked headlong into the metal slab of a door-- and he would have, if the guard hadn't grabbed him by the arm and tugged him back. 

The door hissed sharply as it slid open, and Thomas steeled himself against the instinctive jump that seized his muscles at the loud noise. He knew, though, that he couldn’t. If he took even one step back, the guard might think he was trying to run. 

Did he do that often? He wished he could. 

The room he was guided into was as cold and expressionless as every other room, sleek and styled into seamless perfection. He saw the treadmill and the set of dumbbells, all the sensors and equipment. His muscles still ached from whatever had been done to him to make him forget. His head was still too foggy to think or speak-- but he wasn’t _supposed_ to speak. So, that was okay, he supposed. 

A mousy technician shuffled in, immediately reaching to remove Thomas’s shirt as if he wasn’t a person with hands of his own. He jerked back only slightly as the tech unbuttoned his shirt and started to pull it down his arms. He just barely caught himself before the guards saw— he had a vague memory of being manhandled into compliance, his arms shoved out to his sides— if he didn’t just _let_ them, they’d _make_ him. 

_They’re just preliminary tests,_ he thought to himself, trying to make himself breathe normally and relax, _it makes no sense to fight this right now..._

The name of the game was all about _not_ drawing attention to himself. He was watched too closely to protest too loudly. Not right now, at least. Not while he was still just beginning to understand the basics. 

So, he let them stick him with sensors until he was sure there wasn’t a single square inch of skin left free, and he got on the treadmill and ran until they told him to stop. He let them take their notes and study his vitals, and he lifted the dumbbells that they told him to lift until they made him stop that, too. 

By the time it was over, he was so used to keeping his mouth shut that it seemed like he’d turned his brain off with it. He’d swallowed his tongue all the way down his throat, and the shame of keeping so still and acting so goddamn mild left him feeling hollow and numb. The sweat beaded around the million sensors and dripped down to his eyes. 

The sensation of running continued to pound in his muscles even long after he stopped.

The treadmill had felt… good, almost. When his feet pounded the equipment hard enough, he could almost feel earth under his feet. When he clenched his fists tight enough, the sensation of the phantom hand in his grew stronger and stronger, and he pumped his legs harder. Like he was trying to catch up to someone. He held onto the memory with an iron grip, focusing everything in him on finding _that face_ in his foggy head. 

He had never wanted to run away so badly-- at least, he couldn’t remember it, if he had. As soon as he was off the treadmill and the tech was puttering around again, he missed the familiar motion. It must’ve been a trick of his mind or side effect of whatever they’d used to take it apart, but Thomas could _swear_ that he felt a breeze in his hair. 

* * *

Every step he took was guided, monitored. How much food he ate for breakfast, how many ounces of water he drank, how much exercise his aching muscles and sore bones could take-- for all Thomas knew, they were counting his goddamn steps. Everywhere he went, he was flanked by the shadow of a masked, spectacled doctor clutching a datapad, and the faceless, armored guard. They had WCKD insignias embroidered, stamped, and embossed into their clothes like a mark of property. 

The IV port in his arm itched, and Thomas swallowed. 

He knew that something was very wrong-- the sensation crawled under his skin and settled in his stomach, flipping and twisting. 

The next glass-paned lab that he was led to felt… somehow _dim_. It was as if the sunlight streaming in the wide windows had been turned down. He remembered this place, but not quite. He remembered it the way you might remember a dream, or something painful enough that you thought you’d blocked it out. 

He paused in the threshold too long, and there was suddenly a rough grip bruising his bicep. The guard forced him in, and sat him on the edge of the cot, practically dragging him as Thomas’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the floor. 

He did _not_ want to be here. 

The twisted knot of his stomach got tighter and a vice squeezed itself around his ribs— he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t _think_. There were leather cuffs dangling off the edges of the bed and he knew how they chafed his wrists, even with those stupid, useless pads on the inside. The machine next to him was turned off, but he knew the sound of deep, rhythmic suction that came out of it and how it made every muscle in his body cramp. He knew the tubes of the machine led to bags that they’d fill with his blood, and the bags all went to somewhere where he’d _help a lot of people in desperate need—_

“Let him go, let him go!” A voice cried, sounding like it was down a distant tunnel, all but completely swallowed by the thunder of his heart pounding in his ears. 

He hadn’t realized how hard he was struggling until he managed to hear it— Thomas felt the harsh, gloved hands of the guards, and heard the panicked cries of someone yelling. 

_That’s you, dipshit,_ came the dark voice in his head again, as the world came back into focus. 

His throat felt hoarse and his vision swam. His face was hot and his breathing was shaky, even as the newcomer came rushing into the room and over to his side. 

He wanted to run, or fight— do _anything_ to get out of this fucking room— but suddenly, there were soft hands cupping his face and searching his gaze like they _cared_. 

She had a long face and wide blue eyes fixed on Thomas. Her brown hair fell around her face in waves, and there was something familiar about her— different from the other WCKD techs and doctors he’d recognized that day. 

“There’s nothing to freak out about. You’re okay—” she smiled, and Thomas was too disoriented to do much but believe her. What else was there? He swallowed hard and took a shuddering breath.

“You’re not scheduled for any more extractions until you’ve recovered from… from yesterday. Today I’m just gonna do a baseline exam. Take your temperature, do a blood test—that sort of thing.” She smiled again, and he just wanted her to keep talking. It loosened every rigid muscle in his body to have someone actually _explain_ something. 

He nodded clumsily, jerking his head up and down like he’d never done it in his life. She let go of his face and took a step back, breathing out a long sigh that deflated her shoulders. 

“Alright, A1. Just keep taking deep breaths, that’s good— everything’s gonna be fine.” 

The insignia on her lab coat had never meant _fine, okay,_ or _alright_. He watched every step as the young woman fluttered around the room, trying to dig through the catalog of faces and feelings in his tired brain. Where had he seen her before? Her face was warm and open, with a genuineness that Thomas couldn’t reconcile with WCKD. 

“You can go. I’ll call if you’re needed.” she smiled tightly at the guards that had been holding him, and the doctor that had been following him. Even without their faces visible, Thomas could tell that they were shocked. Their spines went straight to attention, the tech started to protest, and the guards shuffled their booted feet--

“ _You_ can _go_ now.” the young woman repeated, enunciating every syllable, still smiling. 

And they shuffled out. 

She didn’t move until the last of them were out and the door hissed shut behind them, leaving Thomas sitting awkwardly on the edge of that terrible bed, still trembling a little in the shadow of the machine beside him.

There was usually a steady stream of his blood making all those clear tubes pulse with dark color. The memory of it churned in his gut, and he sucked in a slow breath. He remembered the sensation of _dwindling_ , like the world around him was fading in and out. The IV in his arm would jump every once in a while, tugging on the tender, abused skin at the crook of his elbow. His brain would go fuzzy and the room would go dim, the darkness closing in around him. 

But then? Then, he would _dream--_

“A1?” the young woman was in front of him now, sitting on a stool she’d pulled up close, looking at him intently. “How’re you feeling?” 

Her eyes were smart, but kind, and he almost dared to feel _safe_. There was something about her that made him think of _home,_ and he stumbled to find the words to properly say what he was feeling. He wasn’t sure if there was a single thought left in his head. There were only images: rolling fields of green grass and the feeling of a soft summer breeze— and then the stench of death, and the screams of someone fighting against his arms, trying to break free of him. Why? What had happened? He blinked, and there was a lump of a body in a bed by a crackling fire, and it made his chest ache--

“Fine. M’fine.” he croaked, totally unconvincing, “Everything’s… fuzzy and far away.” 

She nodded as if that was what he said every time this happened. Had this happened before? He had seen her eyes before. Where had he seen her before?

A cold metal disc was pressed to the skin of his chest, and he nearly jumped ten feet in the air before he realized that it was just a stethoscope. 

“Try to relax, okay?” 

He didn’t relax. 

She kept going with the exam as if everything was just as _fine_ as he said, keeping up a constant babble that Thomas wished he could record and play back. He had so many _questions,_ words getting jumbled up in his head, colliding with flashes of memory. Every other word seemed to strike some chord in his mind, conjuring up faces of long-dead people or visions of forgotten places. 

“I’m sorry we had to put you in this space. Things are all shifted around-- the usual exam room has a patient in it. I told them that it might scare you, but no one listens to me around here.”

“A _patient?_ Do they have The Flare?” he finally managed to ask, remembering blown out pupils and black veins. Someone had told him about The Flare-- he’d been strapped down, there was a woman standing over him. She was going to make him forget--

“Yeah, he does. A lot of people do, but he’s a special case. It’s a strain we’ve never seen before-- he’s the only person to ever survive it so long.” 

“Huh…” he breathed, his head starting to ache with all the input, “How… how are we supposed to help them?” 

She smiled at him, and it felt disarmingly _real_. Then, he was jerked out of his reverie as she popped a thermometer into his slack mouth, ignoring the way that he was staring. 

“You’re immune to the Flare— you and your friend. I am too, actually. We have these little particles in our blood that are able to fight the disease in a way that other people can’t.” 

“Then why aren’t you getting _extracted_ , too?” 

That sent the smile slipping off her face, leaving behind something that was more like a grimace. Her gaze dulled and dropped to her hands, like she couldn’t look Thomas in the eye for a second longer. 

“Immunes aren’t all created equal-- at least, not as far as WCKD is concerned. In order to be cleared for the Cure Initiative, you have to have a certain particle count in your blood. It took some trial and error to figure it out, but now our practices are safer. It’s lucky that I have medical training, or I wouldn’t be here at all.” 

It felt like she was reading off a script, and it lit a fire in Thomas the second she said it. It took him by surprise, the way his heartbeat kicked up a notch in his chest, pumping fresh anger through his veins. “What’s _trial and error_ for you people?” 

_How many people did you kill before you figured it out?_ He didn’t say it, but it hung in the air between them. 

She set her jaw and tried to level him with her penetrating blue eyes— there was no fire in it, though. The shame ran deeper than anything else, and Thomas lifted his chin to stare back. 

“WCKD is good. We’re here to find a cure-- to save thousands of people.” her voice brooked no argument, and her lips pursed as she turned away from him. He watched her face as she fidgeted, pushing her long hair behind her ear. 

Everything she said felt like a prewritten, PR-approved message from WCKD. Like a brochure for medical testing. 

“How close are you?” he asked again, the hammer of his anger making him bold, “To finding a cure?” 

She turned back with a prepped syringe that instantly evaporated his confidence and tied his stomach into knots. He backed away on instinct, scrambling closer to the center of the cot as if he could escape, but she caught his arm at the elbow and pulled him back. 

“Relax-- the serum might sting or itch a little, but it’s practically a multivitamin. We all take them.” she explained, and Thomas had no choice but to watch in silence as she jabbed the syringe into the port of his IV. Despite bracing himself for that sting, there was nothing. “The cure is still a way off-- we’ve been able to develop and administer several treatments, but in order to figure out the cure, we’ll need to find a way to separate the particles from the blood, and preferably, how to develop the separated particles synthetically. We’re closer than we’ve ever been-- I just wish they’d let me look at the blood samples and _really_ help.” 

He swallowed the last of the tightness in his throat, forcing himself to breathe-- something about her words set off alarm bells in his head, and he frowned. “They won’t even let you look at the samples?” 

She shook her head, writing something in her datapad before turning back to Thomas. “No, I’m just a student. The people actually working on the cure are the best doctors WCKD can get their hands on-- we’re behind schedule, though, and it’s got everyone on edge.” 

“Behind _who’s_ schedule--?” 

He barely had the time to get the words out before a loud hiss sent both of their heads turning hard enough to get whiplash. The door had slid open with a sharp release of air-- and the guards were back, with company. 

“Agnes!” a blonde woman with a sharp face and blood red lips cried out. She was out of breath, as if she’d run there. Her eyes were fixed on the young student who’d been examining him-- _Agnes?_

Thomas bit his tongue against the urge to say the words that sprang to mind, muscle memory slamming into him like a train-- _Her name’s Teresa, and she’s my sister._

His jaw hung slack from his face, looking up at the wide-eyed expression of the woman in front of him. Teresa-- _Agnes_ was looking at the woman in the threshold with a flash of fear. She stuttered, the gears turning in her mind faster than her voice could keep up. 

“Dr. Paige— he was agitated, I was only trying to calm him down!” 

She was on a tight leash. 

“It’s unacceptable for you to work with the subjects alone— you’re not _trained_ for this.” the blonde woman continued as if Thomas wasn’t there at all. 

Behind Dr. Paige, though, there was a man whose gaze was studying him intently. It sent prickles up Thomas’s spine. 

His posture said he was a guard, but he looked different. His face was exposed, his jacket was open, and his gun was openly brandished at his hip. He looked… foreboding. His nose was long and skinny, his eyes were beady and keen. His hair was high and tight on the sides, and gelled into submission on top. He had the pinched sort of expression that only came from being constantly on the lookout-- he looked like a _rat_. 

Thomas felt the familiar tug of _remembering_ in the space behind his breastbone, but there was no memory that came with the sensation this time. There was nothing more than the deep-seated sense that this man was dangerous. 

Teresa was still stumbling over explanations to her mentor’s cold, pursed face. The blonde woman-- _Dr. Paige_ \-- clicked into the room on familiar heels, startling Thomas out of his staring contest with the rat-faced man. 

“-- I was only trying to help.” 

“You were reckless, and you know better. While you were playing nurse, your _actual_ patient had another attack--” 

Her voice was clipped, her arms were crossed. Teresa was being scolded like a child-- she shrank under the doctor’s gaze, her tail between her legs. It wasn’t until her patient was mentioned that she showed any signs of life. 

“ _What?_ He had no symptoms for over a week, we were making headway--” 

“If you want to keep him, you’ll need to do better than that.” 

“I can do it-- I can help!” 

She had made it sound like this patient was too important to get rid of before, but at the mention of helping him, the man by the door let out a derisive scoff. Wires crossed in Thomas’s brain, trains of thought getting tangled between waves of suffocating emotions-- the anger, confusion, defensiveness on behalf of this strange young woman, and then distrust sending him back away from her sad eyes. 

Teresa cared about the patient-- the patient with the strange strain of the Flare. The doctor seemed to tolerate him, but the rat-faced man didn’t. Or maybe, he didn’t think Teresa could help him. 

From the look on his face, he didn’t seem to think that any of them were worth saving at all. 

“I’ll accompany you to the exam room-- _Janson!”_ Dr. Paige turned sharply on her heel to the rat-faced man, and the name sent another pang of recognition lancing through Thomas’s gut. “Janson, see A1 back to his quarters. He must be tired.” she caught his gaze and looked straight through him. Her red lipped smile was simpering and gentile, and Thomas bit his cheek to try and keep his face blank, even as wave after wave of memory slammed into him. There had been a huge Berg, and a small group of familiar, terrified faces. The rat-faced man was there, and Dr. Paige was smiling _that_ smile. 

They had been separated. He felt it as if someone had ripped away a part of him, and he balled his hands into fists at his sides to hide their shaking. 

Dr. Paige had wiped away his memories-- she’d smiled at him, she’d given him every excuse, and she’d laid him out with a needle in his arm. 

No one could know what he remembered. If they did, he’d be burned again. They’d put the dams back up in his head. The idea of it made his throat constrict, despite the way his rage pulsed in his veins-- he felt hot, his blood burning through him even as he kept his face impassable out of pure spite. 

They wouldn’t be able to take him again. He wouldn’t let them. His name was Thomas, not A1. He didn’t live in the Last City-- he was a captive of a company called WCKD. He had a sister named Teresa and a friend named Minho, and they were all in _danger_. 

With his nails digging half moons into his palms, he focused on hiding. He buried the desire to run away down deep inside him, and he breathed in slow, steady breaths. He remembered the phantom sensation of a hand holding his, and felt a drop of calm in the sea of his desperate rage. 

The doctor’s gaze still prickled over him as the rat-faced man-- _Janson--_ gripped him by the arm and steered him away. 

* * *

Janson’s hand around his bicep was bruisingly strong and _constant--_ not like the other guards, who only manhandled him when he faltered. The rat-faced man’s rough grip stayed right where it was, turning harshly from hallway to hallway. Thomas was tugged along hard enough for him to stumble, barely able to keep his legs under him. 

They came to a bustling corridor just like all the rest-- lined with metal doors and paned glass labs that saw right through to the cityscape beyond. Thomas had bitten his cheek until he tasted blood trying to keep his damn mouth shut, but he finally had enough when he was jerked around the corner and nearly sent sprawling to the floor. 

“I can walk by myself.” he huffed, finding his footing and digging his heels into the tile. He stood his ground against the hold on his arm, pulling back and bringing Janson to his own stumbling halt. It sent a flicker of vindictive glee sparking in his chest, his lips quirking up into a hint of a smirk when the rat-faced man whirled around to face him. 

In a split second, his back was shoved into the nearest wall, sending a group of techs scrambling around them, fluttering away like a flock of birds. He grunted with the force of it all, unforgiving against his spine. 

“Let me make one thing as clear to you as I can--” Janson hissed, his beady eyes glistening and a vein jumping in his forehead, _“I decide_ what you can and can’t do. D’you hear me?”

Thomas was sure that there was something scathing he could say. He could come up with some kind of rebuttal that would get him concussed and make him an enemy-- but the words died on his lips. His mouth was suddenly dry as cotton, and even the spark of indignance in him went out. 

Over Janson’s shoulder, there was a lab that Thomas knew he recognized. It was paned almost entirely with glass, letting in every ounce of light through the huge windows to the outside world. It was bright enough to make him squint against the light, and make the figures inside appear to glow. 

He recognized Teresa’s long brown hair and Dr. Paige’s ramrod straight posture. The student hovered next to a standard, WCKD-issued cot, writing furiously in her datapad. Her mentor watched from a distance, just close enough to remain in control. 

It was the person that she was examining that sent Thomas reeling. 

He cut a lanky silhouette against the blinding sunlight, sitting upright on the edge of the cot the same way Thomas had before. His shoulders were slumped like a heavy weight was on his back. His jaw was clenched, every line of his body looking tense and pained. Blond hair skimmed his shoulders and caught the light, haloing his head and making Thomas’s breath catch. 

He was saying something to Teresa, gesturing halfheartedly with a long, skinny hand, and Thomas felt the familiar pressure of that hand in his. He could imagine exactly what the man’s soft accent sounded like while just watching the curve of his wry smile through the glass as he spoke-- 

_Tommy._ He used to call him _Tommy,_ and he held his hand with the type of surety that made him believe that things would be okay. 

He _knew_ him. 

If Janson wasn’t holding him up, his back pressing mercilessly into the cold wall, Thomas was sure he’d crumble to the ground. 

And then-- with his eyes misting over and memories flooding every part of him-- the blond looked back at him. 

Despite the sallow, grayish tinge of his pale skin, his eyes were still intelligent and clear. They were deep brown-- Thomas couldn’t _really_ see them, not from the distance, but his mind filled in the gaps. 

_Newt had deep brown eyes, like dark wood after being soaked with rain, just a few degrees above true black. They contrasted his smooth, pale skin and made him look older than he was, wiser and more melancholy. Still, they managed to hold such warmth— they sparkled when he laughed, went soft and unfocused after a few drinks, and they reflected the flickering orange of bonfires. If he let you get close enough, you could see the details of him, shining with flecks of gold and rings of mahogany brown._

_Thomas couldn’t remember when or why he’d been able to get so close to him, but where memory failed him, his sense memories came through. A tingling, weightless feeling drifted up and down his body, from his head to his toes._

_They had been close. They were… friends. The thought felt more like a question than a declaration, and Minho’s face— teasing and laughing— drifted into his vision as if he could hear his thoughts._

He blinked rapidly against the memories, shaking his head. The part of him that was still rooted in the present fought to stay lucid under the rat-faced man’s sharp gaze, but Thomas couldn’t help the relentless flood of memories that bombarded him. He only barely managed to keep his face passably neutral, hiding the swell of panic and realization under the surface. 

The blond— _Newt—_ was the last trigger, breaking the dam in his mind and leaving Thomas shivering and gasping for air. 

_By the time Newt got sick, everything had already hit the fan. They’d wised up to WCKD and their experiment. They’d lost most of the village population, including five of their siblings and their mother. The door to the orphanage on the hilltop—_ home— _was barricaded against both the Infected, and the guards and doctors who pretended to help_. 

_They knew WCKD had started this— infecting people with the Flare and testing the results, studying the reactions, stealing corpses._

_But it hadn’t always been that way._

_WCKD came to the Glade in their fancy airship with the first thaws of spring. They came with food for the hungry, advanced medicines for the sick, and tall tales of a terrifying disease-- they said they were there to_ help _._

_At first, it was welcome._

_The food and supplies they received came with one condition, though— participation. All it was was a daily fingerstick. After all, they were trying to_ protect _them from a deadly, vicious disease that could ravage the population. They were trying to develop a cure, and the Glade had an opportunity to be on the_ frontlines of medical history. 

_The first people to die were the poor. Wasn’t that always the way it went?_

_Thomas didn’t remember much of the first Infected-- nothing but the stench of acrid death, strong enough to make your hair curl. His eyes watered and he held his breath, willing the scene to change. He focused on the sensation of green grass under his feet and a warm breeze in his hair, and found himself on a familiar hill._

_As spring heated the earth and faded into summer, Mom started taking more house calls. She hiked down the hill each day, to the people that needed the most help. She packed satchels of herbs and poultices, and brought books to research the strange new symptoms. Before long, she started coming home with a haggard, pale face and stains on her clothes-- inky black smears and rusty, dried blood. Sweat clung to her brow as time clawed on and the summer sun beat down from above._

_She caught it in the first week of summer. It was a slow disease, the kind that can lie dormant in the blood for weeks, but the final deterioration was rapid and cruel._

_It started with the headache. Then came the mood swings— angry outbursts and sudden episodes of paranoia— and lack of appetite. Chills and hot flashes could come on at any time. When their mother first got sick, they noticed it because of the haphazard way she pulled up her hair and the sudden exclamations of how drafty their house had gotten. She would put on and take off several layers of clothes each day._

_It was one of the times that she was fanning her face, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, that they noticed the dark smudges on her pale skin. At first, they thought they were bruises. The small patches of skin were dark and tender, and they could stay that way for weeks before the engorged black veins became more pronounced._

_Once the veins started to creep up your neck and onto your face, you were usually already gone. Mom had forced them upstairs with those last shreds of sanity. She had taken herself out to the forest with a sharp kitchen knife— Thomas remembered hauling Teresa away from her mother’s side. He remembered watching from the small upstairs window while the woman who had only ever shown him love and community staggered out into the shadows to die alone._

_The Glade was dying. More houses were empty than not, and the cemeteries outside the low stone gates were overflowing. Sometimes, corpses would go missing._

_No one wanted to admit how long it took to suspect their new neighbor— the hulking Berg that loomed over them all like a storm cloud, and the white-coated strangers who made rounds from house to house._

_It was Newt who said it first, in the long first days after Mom died, “It's deeper than they’ll let any of us see, Tommy. No one had the Flare before they came along.”_

_After Mom, they buried five other members of their little chosen family. It started with the headache, and before long, they were spitting vitriolic black fluid. Their pupils were nothing but inky black pools. They didn’t recognize their family— they didn’t even know their own names._

_Thomas couldn’t get the image out of his head— the gray, ashen color of the skin and the clammy gleam of a fever. As the Flare swept through their home, the crew of ragtag “kids” shrank further and further, and soon there were only 7 of them left. Some of them were older-- like Alby, Thomas and Teresa, Newt and Minho. Only Winston and Chuck were left from the second group of kids that wound up in Mom’s care. They were just teenagers. Thomas caught himself staring all the time, watching his little family while they tried to keep their world together. He woke up in a panicked frenzy at night, unable to escape the constant, crushing dread of who would be next._

_Newt tried to hide it, and Thomas would never forgive himself for how long he missed the signs. The headache must’ve started weeks earlier, and he didn’t notice a thing. Then, he chalked up the shifting moods to the stress— all of them were getting testy. It didn’t seem fair to hold his friend to some higher standard of patience, even when he snapped at_ Thomas— _he couldn’t remember what for._

_He supposed it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were too late._

_It was the eyes that gave him away. They were glazed and far away-- the warmth was fading out of them, and his usual melancholy seemed to go deeper. It edged into an exhaustion that Thomas couldn’t make sense of. He knew his friend was sleeping— Thomas was the one awake, making sure they all did._

_Once the veins started to creep up his arms and down his hands, they knew they were in trouble. Thomas didn’t know how to describe the way it felt, to watch his friend start losing his mind. He was going insane, just like the rest of them— there were moments when Thomas would jolt Newt out of a trance only to have him look at him like he was a stranger._

_It was like a slow freeze. Like ice was seeping into his veins and spreading up to his heart— just like the jagged black lightning bolts zigzagging up his friend’s soft, pale skin. He remembered holding his hand while Newt wasted away in that bed by the fire. Thomas gripped onto him like his life depended on it, but Newt’s long, skinny fingers barely held him back._

_“T-Tommy—"_

He was dragged back up to the surface when a pair of rough hands gripped him by the shirt and shook him. The back of his head smacked audibly against the wall, and a sound almost like a whimper was startled out of his throat. 

Janson’s face swam into view. 

_Fuck._ How long had he been standing there, gawping at the ghost of a friend? He must’ve given himself away— the rat-faced man was scowling at him. His gaze flicked across Thomas’s face like he was trying to piece something together. 

“ _Jesus,_ what kind of chemical is Ava pumping you kids up with? Have you lost your mind?” 

_No, actually. I think I’ve just found it._ He thought to himself. 

The frozen knot of terror in Thomas’s chest instantly thawed, unraveling on a slow, covert sigh of relief. 

“Get off’a me.” he grunted, squirming in place between Janson and the wall.

One of the hands that had been fisted in his WCKD-issued scrub shirt came up to his jaw and squeezed, bruising his face and crushing him into the metal behind him. Janson’s eyes gleamed as he did it, just to be an asshole. He didn’t humor Thomas with any type of reply, just waiting a long, still moment before letting go of his face and stepping just far enough back for him to breathe. 

He dragged him by his arm all the way back to his small, bare room, muttering about _little shits_ and _not being worth the trouble._

Thomas could feel brown eyes following his back until he turned the corner, and he felt ten degrees colder the moment the sensation was gone. In a haze, he let himself be led away, keeping his face carefully blank as he counted lab after lab all the way back to his room. 

He collapsed onto his bed, finally somewhat alone. 

He tried to keep it together, but it was no use. Lying on his side, he curled into a ball and let himself shake apart. The overwhelming amount of information was numbing his brain and sending tremors through his aching bones. 

With nothing to do but ride out the wave of panic in his tight chest, he took stock of the basics. 

His name was Thomas. He was a WCKD captive in the Last City. He had friends who were dead, and he had friends who were in trouble-- Minho and Newt. He had a sister named Teresa, and they had done something to her. 

They were all in danger. 

They had to get out of here.


End file.
